


got the whole world shaking

by decinq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Epikegster, M/M, Rare Pair Fan Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:44:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I gotta get you guys drinking better liquor,” Kent says.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, Mr. Stanley Cup. Feel free to fit that bill anytime.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	got the whole world shaking

**Author's Note:**

> a huge thank you to [alyssakate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alyssakate) for putting this amazing zine together, and for giving me a huge, huge time extension when real life got in my way. you're the real mvp. thank you [idrilka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/idrilka) for cheerleading me, and for making this better. i'm truly #blessed.
> 
>  
> 
> and to quinn, for always pulling through for me, for making me a better writer and a better person. this was all her idea, and i was just lucky enough to be allowed to run with it. i love you, little bug. thank you for everything. this is for you, just like everything else is.
> 
> you should also know that this version is different than the one included in the zine, with one additional scene. please note the rating change, as it doesn't comply with the zines 'gen to suggestive' nature.
> 
> the title comes from one direction's 'wolves'

 

 

 

Shitty knows loads of stuff about himself:

 

One: he’s wicked allergic to kiwis. Pineapple, too, and passion fruit. Those two are a bit more lax, but kiwis make his whole face huge and his tongue swell and in freshman year Jack had to drive him to the hospital, because Shitty was Patrick Shwasted and Jack had no idea what the fuck was happening, and Shitty’s tongue was too swollen to explain.

 

Two: he’s outrageously ‘swawesome. Which sometimes kind of creates pressure to always be ‘swawesome, but whenever he thinks about it, he’s usually a bowl and bit in, and he gets caught in the cyclical nature of the idea--if he’s so ‘swawesome, isn’t he always ‘swawesome without trying? And wouldn’t that pressure just be a by-product of his very permanent ‘swawesomeness? And isn’t a big part of being so ‘swawesome just that he, like, never has to try?

 

It’s kind of too much to think about when he doesn’t have his sober thinking cap on, and he never thinks to think about it when he does. Whatever. Shitty’s the realest.

 

Three: Jack is, like, his super duper best friend. He wants to be old and listen to Jack complain about the youngins on his yard or what the fuck ever, and that’s, like, totally chill. He wants to play bridge or whatever sickass games old folks play when they’re riding out the rest of their days like the p.i.m.p.s. that Shitty knows them to be.

 

Point is, Shitty is nuts about Jack. Totally ass over friendship tea kettle for Jack. It’s cool, it’s not a thing.

 

Jack’s awesome, which can’t really be number four, because that’s about Jack and not about Shitty, but the point still stands. Jack’s fucking legit. Jack’s all focus and weird robot eyes, but he’s also snarky as shit, and a total fuckin’ nerd, and he lets Shitty sit naked on his bed while he watches weird, old History Channel documentaries from the eighties or whatever, so Shitty is totally chill with it. Jack’s totally bomb at hockey, and Shitty knows he’s basically the luckiest guy in the world to be able to call Jack Laurent Zimmermann his bestie. He knows that.

 

Just like--sometimes, Jack is a total dick.

 

* * *

 

 

Jack is an absolute savage to Bitty, who is objectively the sweetest person Shitty has seen with his own eyes. Met with his own face. Whatever. Shitty lays eyes on Eric Richard “Bitty” Bittle and he falls in love a little bit. Whatever. Shitty’s man enough to admit that. Bitty is definitely, absolutely the most adorable human on this garbage planet. And Jack is. Fucking terrible to him.

 

Which Shitty doesn’t get. It takes Jack actual weeks to stop being a total dingus about it all, and it takes even longer for Jack to not be a weird robot about it. And then it takes Bitty going down and not getting up for Jack to look like he actually regrets his behaviour. And then. Well. After that, Shitty’s not really sure what the fuck happens, because it looks kind of like Jack and Bitty are friends? Pals? Buds? Bros?

 

Which is great. Capital G Great. Shitty is all about it, but Shitty also takes a few minutes to be wary as hell about it, too. It makes Shitty’s proverbial hackles go up, a bit. Bitty is too sweet, too pure, too tiny, too kind for Jack to pull his Hot And Cold routine on him. Because Bitty doesn’t know Jack. Not really. Not the way that Shitty does--which wasn’t easy. It was tough going for a solid stretch there at the beginning. Like pulling teeth. And so Shitty can see Bitty’s hesitation with Jack.

 

But then it’s summer and Bits goes back down South and, assumably, back into the closet, and Shitty worries about that more than anything else, if he’s being honest. And then Shitty is busy getting ready for senior year. Which is just a wild thing that he cannot even believe is happening, and so he’s preoccupied, and forgets to think about it, for a while, after that.

 

* * *

 

Bitty shows up with bigger arms and broader shoulders and a haircut that makes him look like an American Apparel ad, and Shitty is honestly momentarily stunned by Bitty’s metamorphosis from boy to man. He butterflied the shit out of himself, and he tells him as much when his mom finally leaves him at the Haus. He exhales heavily, and then laughs, and Shitty throws his arm over his shoulder, and ruffles his hair, and says, “Bits, what the shit, you’re looking too good for this place already.”

 

When they get inside, Shitty asks, “How was your summer?”

 

Bitty shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Same old same, really. But I’m excited to be back.”

 

“Me too, Bits,” Shitty says. “Plus, I gotta say, I love these curtains.”

 

* * *

 

September bleeds into October, and there’s hockey and midterms and Lardo, and Shitty honestly loses track of basically everything. He stays at the library for hours, and there are slightly frightening bags under his eyes, but he gets all his law school apps in on, like, the first week of them being open, and then he sleeps for thirteen hours straight, and it all feels like it happened in a fever dream, after that.

 

Halloween happens, and it’s chill enough. They have a fuck ton of people in the Haus, and it’s timid enough that the campus police leave them alone. The only times they don’t cut them slack is if people start getting punched or that one time Shitty jumped off the roof in sophomore year and broke his ankle. Whatever, it was May, he healed fine.

 

Although the cops also showed up when Jack turned that fire extinguisher on the football team, which was a wild time, and is honestly something Shitty wouldn’t believe had happened if he hadn’t been there.

 

Anyway, Halloween comes and goes, and Shitty rides the waves of life until suddenly it’s Thanksgiving and he’s getting fucked by the institution of his education. Which is low key hyperbolic, because he’s actually pretty inspired by the work he’s doing; he writes a paper about violence against women in horror film, and he takes it to his prof’s office hour three weeks before it’s due, and they work out the kinks, and he’s able to add in a secondary argument about homoeroticism in the horror genre, and an entire rebuttal paragraph about weaponized femininity in _Ginger Snaps_.

 

He runs the essay by Jack, and Jack says, “I’ve never seen it before. I remember watching the _Nightmare on Elm Street_ sequel, and that’s definitely gay, but what’s _Ginger Snaps_? Other than the weaponized women?”

 

“Jack,” Shitty laments. “ _Ginger Snaps_ is a Canadian relic. How have you not seen it?” Jack shrugs, and Shitty says, “We’re fuckin’ watching it right now.”  

 

Jack’s a giant baby when it comes to scary movies, which is hilarious, but once it’s done, he confirms all of the arguments in Shitty’s paper. Jack gets it, which is pretty solid, and Shitty says, “Right? Bridgette is my queen. Life goals, wife goals, am I right?”

 

Jack laughs, and says, “I--yeah, definitely.”

 

* * *

 

 

Shitty comes back from his mom’s place after Thanksgiving long weekend, and something in the Haus feels...different. Not bad, he doesn’t think, but he also can’t name it, so he’s hesitant to jump the gun on the assessment of it.

 

But Jack and Bitty are together all the time, which is pretty new. Not super duper new, because they’ve got a class together, but they seem to be...doing a lot. Of stuff. Together. Shitty is pretty sure that they’ve gone for froyo like, four times without inviting anyone else. And that’s a thing. No two people living in the Haus have dated before, but he’s pretty sure that if anyone were to start bumping uglies in a romantic way, it wouldn’t look dissimilar to what Jack and Bitty look like now. Shitty would spend more time thinking about it, but there’s more hockey and group projects and seminar responses and meetings about his thesis than he can really keep up with.

 

All stress aside, he’s feeling pretty solid about senior year. It’s flying by faster than he expected, feels like the days are two-thirds their supposed length, like somehow there are only 16 hours in a day, so on and so forth until, somehow, it’s December. It’s all chill, and his expectation to results ratio for years past have generally been good. Even when bad shit was happening in the Haus or with his family or with Jack, shit always gets sorted, and it’s always wicked once it does. And so he’s feeling honestly great about it. There’s a big final wave of exam stress that crashes through the Haus, and it seems ruthless at the time, but it leaves them all as survivors, a bit cranky and tired around the edges but nonetheless alive, which is basically the baseline for all that Shitty cares about. Jack’s a total freakazoid about his exams, but he’s also kind of a freakazoid about Bits, which is. Charming as hell, actually, and Shitty is all for it.

 

And so Shitty makes a plan.

 

* * *

 

 

The plan is this:

 

Primer Paso: Plan a kick-ass, savage, wild party, henceforth referred to as EpiKegster 2015, and make sure that all the boys have a kick-ass, savage, wild time. Make tub juice and share it with everyone and make sure that the SMH boys go down in the party version of academic history as the Coolest Frat Squad Ever. Which is a reasonable title, in Shitty’s humble opinion.

 

Segundo Paso: Somehow get Bits and Jack to make out or hold hands or whatever it is that they wanna be doing. But it’s Shitty’s goal to get them to do it. Whatever _it_ is. And the EpiKegster is the venue for such a momentous event.

 

Tercera Paso: Get fucking hammed and have a good enough time that the entire night is forgotten, and possibly the whole semester.

 

* * *

 

 

Bitty comes by looking for Jack, and Shitty is too drunk to really remember that he wants them to be making out. He’s distracted, because Kent Parson is distracting. And he’s had a lot of tub juice. And so when Bits asks, “Shitty, have you seen Jack?” Shitty kinda fucks up the plan, a bit. Because suddenly Shitty is kinda...dragging Jack, a bit. It’s important to do, sometimes: not slander Jack, but remind people that Jack is a flawed guy. He’s complicated, but because he’s so reserved, people tend to forget that he’s kind of a dick. And he’s always been snippy in front of Shitty when Kent’s been around.

 

Which Shitty gets, absolutely. Jack’s life has been hard enough, and Shitty can’t really imagine what it’s like to have your best friend get everything you ever wanted while you were in rehab or a history seminar. Jack gets to hold onto that, absolutely, but it’s not Parson’s fault, and Shitty’s philosophy in life revolves around being kind. That’s, like, basically his only rule. If you come from a place of kindness, every mistake you make can be fixed. It’s hard, sometimes, and sometimes he’s not good at it. But he firmly believes that being nice costs nothing, and he fucking hates that Jack has such a hard time with that, as a concept.

 

Especially when Kent’s around.

 

And so the words come out of Shitty like tub-juice inspired vomit: _Jack can get pretty jealous, okay? The last time Parson dropped by--the way Jack acted...it was kinda like how Jack used to treat you. And I fucking hate saying it...so that’s between you and me, all right?_

 

Bitty disappears into the Haus, and Shitty goes to clean the puke out of his room while Lardo laughs and re-joins the beer pong fiasco in the kitchen.

 

He comes out of his room as Parson is trying to sneak past Bitty in the hallway, and it’s--supes awkward, which is Shitty’s least favourite feeling in the world. Bits isn’t looking at Kent, just past him at Jack, who looks like he’s trying to shrink back into his room. And Kent doesn’t look much better, really, and so Shitty acts fast, and says, “Hey, Parson!”

 

Kent turns around, alarmed, and Shitty takes it in stride that he doesn’t even try to shield the way his heart is on his sleeve, his pain on his face. He’s a celebrity, and as much as Shitty has an infinite number of bones to pick with that social phenomenon, he’s also pretty shocked that Kent’s upset is so nakedly painted across his face.

 

Jack’s door slams, and Bitty looks--fucking freaked, and the noise startles Kent. “Hey, Shits,” he says, his voice quiet. “I think I should, uh, be going.”

 

Shitty shakes his head, petulant, closes the gap between them and says, “Nuh uh, I don’t care what’s goin’ on. Bits is gonna stand there and look forlorn, and you’re gonna come with me. He’ll talk to Jack, and you and me can get a drink. No way did my fave chel-er come all the way out here without telling me his strategy to _Words With Friend_ s. Because, dude, how are you so good at it?”

 

Kent laughs and Shitty throws his arm over Kent’s shoulder. “I read,” Kent says, and he almost smiles, so Shitty thinks it’s a start.

 

“Way to go, kiddo!” Shitty says. Kent elbows him.

 

“I’m older than you,” he says.

 

Shitty pulls them into the bathroom. “In here. This is my best secret drinking room.”

 

“No roof room or whatever?”

 

“We are gonna get too trashed for the roof, my friend. Bad things happen when we combine you, me, and the reading room.”

 

“Like broken ankles?” Kent asks.

 

Shitty locks the bathroom door behind them and says, “Like broken ankles.” When Shitty turns the lights on, Kent sits on the edge of the tub and heaves a sigh. “You okay?” Shitty asks, leaning back against the door.

 

“Drinks, then pity party,” Kent says. Shitty pushes himself off the door and pulls the shower curtain aside. There’s no actual tub juice in the tub, which is, instead, in gatorade coolers downstairs. Alternatively, there’s a fifteen pack of PBR.

 

“I gotta get you guys drinking better liquor,” Kent says.

 

“Okay, Mr. Stanley Cup. Feel free to fit that bill anytime.”

 

Shitty leans forward to pull the box out of the tub, and then he takes a seat beside Kent on its edge. He opens the box and passes Kent a beer. “Race you?” he asks, and Kent nods.

 

Kent’s smiles, all canines and gums, and Shitty smiles back. Kent bites into the can with his teeth, which is a trick either he taught Jack, or Jack taught him. Either way, Shitty scrambles, does the same with less finesse, and pops the tab at the top of the can. Kent’s faster, but he cheated, which Shitty says when he drags the back of his hand over his mouth.

 

“Spoken like a true loser.” Kent smirks.

 

“Rematch, then,” Shitty says, and Kent nods.

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

Shitty wins that time, but only just. They nurse their thirds, and Kent asks Shitty about his classes, about hockey. He doesn’t ask about Jack, but Shitty knows that isn’t because he already knows the answer to any question he might have. Rather, he knows it’s that it makes Kent nervous: Kent told him before that he hates that Jack has a whole life that Kent will never understand.

 

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a few seconds, and Shitty’s only just starting to analyze his buzz when Kent says, “I asked him to come to Vegas with me.”

 

Shitty turns to look at Kent, and watches his hands as he picks at the tab on his beer. “Really?” he asks, not because he doesn’t believe Kent, but because he doesn’t know how else to prompt him.

 

“He didn’t take it very well. I didn’t--I wasn’t awesome about it, once he said no. I just--I just want to play with him again, you know?”

 

Shitty is lucky enough to still get to play with Jack, and so he feels really, really guilty when he says, “Yeah, I know.”

 

“They’d be happy to pay him anything,” Kent says. “There’s the cap space for it. And we--We’d be so fucking good. We’d be amazing.”

 

Shitty reaches forward into the box of beer and pulls out two more cans. He hands one off to Kent, who pops it open immediately. Shitty hadn’t realized the can in his hand was empty, and he feels like a bad guest for half a second. He says, “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not you,” Kent says, with a bit of bite. “It’s just." He sighs. "You know. It’s just Jack.”

 

“Wants what he wants,” Shitty says.

 

“He’s always been that way,” Kent says. “I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”

 

Shitty takes a long pull from his beer, which is warm and not very good, which isn’t something he’s normally aware of, but he feels sensitive to it now.

 

“Jack hates the heat,” Shitty says. “So, I mean. That’s no one’s fault but the Equator’s, I guess.”

 

Kent huffs a breath and slides down into the tub, leaves his legs thrown over the side.

 

“Want to hear about all the weird shit Jack’s been doing this year? He bought a Swiffer duster and then lost it, and then yelled at me when he couldn't find it.”

 

Kent laughs. Shitty smiles and slides down beside him. Their shoulders press together, and Kent says, “Typical.”

 

“Yeah,” Shitty says. He finishes his beer and tosses it across the small bathroom, where it lands in the bowl of the sink.

 

“Good shot,” Kent says. He finishes his beer, bottoms up, and says, “Do mine.”

 

* * *

 

They finish the beer faster than they should. They don’t talk about Jack much. Mostly, Shitty talks about his classes. Kent tells stories about his teammates, one of whom, in Shitty’s personal opinion, Kent has a _huge_ crush on.

 

“You can tell me,” Shitty says. “I won’t _tell anyone_.”

 

“Who would you tell? _Hey, Fellow Samwell Student, did you know that professional hockey player Kent Virgil Parson has a big, gay crush on his liney, David_?”

 

“Your middle name is _Virgil_?” Shitty snorts a laugh.

 

“Like you’re one to talk, _Bernard_.”

 

Shitty fakes offended. “How dare you,” he says, and then he covers Kent’s mouth with his palm.

 

Kent laughs into Shitty’s hand, and then, when his voice is muffled against it, he licks at Shitty’s palm.

 

“That’s disgusting,” Shitty says, but he doesn’t move. “However, you forget that I live in this certified shithole, and nothing truly disgusts me anymore.” Kent licks at Shitty’s palm again, and when Shitty looks at him, he’s got a smile in his eyes.

 

There’s nothing sacred in the kingdom of God, Shitty thinks.

 

Shitty pulls his palm back, and Kent smiles again. This time, it’s softer, and he bites at his bottom lip tentatively. He leans forward into Shitty’s space, and Shitty holds eye contact with him until they’re so close he goes cross-eyed.

 

“Hey,” Kent says, his voice a whisper, and Shitty’s drunk, but he’s not so drunk that he doesn’t know what _that_ means.

 

He smiles, and he says, “Hey,” before leaning the last bit into Kent’s space. When their lips touch, it feels normal. Like any other kiss Shitty has had. It’s soft at first, and then Kent whines, low in his throat, and Shitty presses forward more, chases Kent’s lips with a fervor that surprises him. Kent tastes like beer and promises, and when Shitty licks into his mouth, Kent fists his hands in the front of Shitty’s shirt.

 

He moans into Shitty, and Kent is normally not a very loud guy, doesn’t have an attitude or any entitlement. But he’s loud now, and Shitty is undeniably into it. They scramble to find a position where they can both fit in the tub comfortably. Kent’s smaller than Shitty, and Shitty ends up with him in his lap.

 

And he’s drunk, yeah, but it’s good, and Kent smiles into Shitty’s neck, and it’s crazy, it’s something totally new, and it’s not something Shitty would ever have guessed at. But Kent’s laugh tickles the soft skin at Shitty’s jaw, and his hands are soft in Shitty’s hair, and he whispers, “I’ve never kissed anyone with a moustache before,” and it sounds heartwrenchingly sincere. And so Shitty kisses back, bites at Kent’s collarbone and groans into his neck.

 

* * *

 

 

Here's the fourth thing Shitty knows about himself: he hasn't come in his pants since he was sixteen.

 

Here's the fifth thing: he might do it again, now, if he can't change the whole _wearing pants_ part of this situation, a-s-a-p.

 

For someone who so rarely wears pants in him own home, he feels well and properly betrayed by whatever force of nature led him astray. Because he  _is_ astray, right now. With Kent above him, the smell of his overpriced cologne and beer clinging to his skin, and the way he's moving against Shitty--it's all  _a lot_ , is all. Shitty's never played tonsil hockey with a boy before. He's thought about it, in a sort of abstract, far off way. And he never thought he would be all that into it, never imagined he'd ever have his hand pushed up the back of  _Kent Parson_ 's shirt. 

 

And yet. Here he is, hard in his pants and pressing up into Kent's weight.

 

And here's Kent, pressing back into Shitty, and Shitty--

 

Shitty can't really escape the thought that Kent's life is much more complicated than his own. Shitty can make out with a super hot guy in his bathroom, and it can mean, relatively, nothing. Shitty's like, 85 percent straight, and it doesn't ruffle his sensibilities to know that, pretty soon, he'll have another dude touching his dick. That's cool.

 

The part of it that's hard to swallow, and that sits at the back of his brain, is that Shitty knows something about Kent's life, now, that maybe only one other person knows. 

 

It doesn't take a rocket scientists to put it together; Jack came out to Shitty in their sophomore year, and he was nervous about it, but he wasn't  _scared._ And Jack has ghosts, yeah. He's had a really rough fucking go of it, all things considered. His life spiralled out of his control, and the whole world watched, and then he had to sneak off to some Lib-Arts school and lick his wounds. He still hides himself away, and he had to watch while Kent got everything he ever thought he wanted.

 

But Kent--

 

Kent has _demons._  Kent probably loved Jack, very much. Kent probably slept in Jack's bed and kissed Jack's eyelids, and it probably threw his life for a loop when Jack OD'd, too. And it doesn't compare, not really, but it's still a fucked up thing to think about. They were probably happy together, for a while. Shitty can imagine Jack holding onto Kent just like Shitty is now, and he can imagine Jack's laugh, and his wonky, too big smile. His wide eyes. 

 

And all he can think about is Kent, in Vegas, hiding. Kent, who might be in love with his liney, and who has the softest hair Shitty's ever felt, and who smiles like he's still just a boy. Like the weight of his once sub-par expansion team isn't on his shoulder. Like the cameras of the entire hockey world aren't pointed on him _all the time_. All the time, other than right now. Kent, who will probably hide for his whole life. Kent who will never get to join the plethora of hockey players with cute pictures of their weddings on Instagam. Kent who will either live his life alone and suffer for it, or come out and be harassed for it. Kent, who doesn't get a choice. Kent, who is sucking at Shitty's neck in a very convincing, very skilled way. 

 

Shitty's heart aches for him.

 

And so Shitty says, "Sit back for a second, babe." Kent whines, but he leans back, and Shitty undoes the buttons on Kent's jeans. "This okay?" Shitty asks.

 

Kent nods, and when Shitty looks him in the eye, he says, "Please," with a raspy voice. 

 

He's trusting Shitty with something pretty massive. He gets that. And so Shitty is gonna do his best to make it worth it. "I've never, uh, with a guy before."

 

"That's okay," Kent says. He shifts up onto the lip of the tub to take his pants off completely, and Shitty works on his own fly. "First time for everything," he says, smiling. He pulls his shirt over his head, and Shitty's surprised at how it forces a whine out of him. 

 

"Jesus, look at you," Shitty says. 

 

Kent's cheek colour, and Shitty might explode, with all that he's feeling about  _that_ , so he just grabs at Kent's elbows and pulls him back into his lap. Kent kisses him fiercely, takes Shitty's lip between his teeth. He says, "Thank you," into the corner of Shitty's mouth, and Shitty just holds onto him more tightly. Shitty runs his hands down Kent's back, settles his hands on his waist. He lifts a hand to Kent's mouth, and Kent licks at his palm in an echo of earlier, and it's just. A lot.

 

He works his hand into Kent's briefs and wraps his hand around his shaft. He strokes him once, twice, and Kent says, soft, "Can you, uh--slower?"

 

"Yeah," Shitty says. "Anything."

 

He slows his hand, tightens his grip in increments. And it's just a hand job, it's not really anything special at all, but the way Kent presses into Shitty, the way his hands scramble on Shitty's arms, at his back--something about it sneaks its way into Shitty and settles in his chest. Shitty shifts in the tub, and Kent presses closer to him, and Shitty licks into his mouth when Kent moves one of his hands from Shitty's shoulder and to his dick.

 

"Fuck," Shitty keens as Kent gets his hand on him, and Kent matches the pace pretty evenly. It's slower than Shitty would normally be with himself, but it's actually, like, really nice. It's not gentle by any means, not really, but something about the slow drag of Kent's hand on him, his hand on Kent--it's delicate, and Shitty knows that even if it doesn't really matter, it still  _matters._  He doesn't know what the difference is, just knows that there is one, and it's important.

 

He comes over Kent's hand, and it surprises him, and his orgasm shakes through his beer addled brain, and he bites at the juncture of Kent's shoulder and neck. Kent moans, low and heady, and comes too. Kent's hand leaves Shitty's dick for his chest, and Shitty eases his own hand off Kent slowly. Kent shakes as he comes down from his orgasm, and Shitty pushes his cowlick away from his forehead gently. Shitty runs his hands up and down Kent's spine. 

 

And maybe it's all the alcohol, or maybe it was the mutual hand jobs, or maybe it's just that the world is really heavy for Shitty and Kent both--no matter that it's a different weight they each carry--but Kent is still shaking. Shitty feels like the earth is tilted on its axis, like there's been some seismic shift, and the space in the bathtub is the only part of the world still shaking with the aftershocks.

 

"Hey," Shitty says into the side of Kent's cheek softly. He touches Kent softly, and he thinks that maybe it's been a very long time since anyone's done that, because Kent's eyes are still closed, his breath still coming heavy. "Hey, Kent," he says again, and Kent presses his mouth to Shitty's, close-lipped but desperate anyway. He carts his fingers through Shitty's hair, and Shitty leans into the touch. 

 

"Thank you," he says, and it's barely a whisper, but Shitty hears it, takes it for what it is. He shifts under Kent, leans them back against the back end of the tub. It's too small for the both of them, and it's kind of uncomfortable, but they're both drunk, and Shitty thinks it'll be okay if they stay, even just for a minute.

 

* * *

 

Kent says, “Can we, like, shower?”

 

Shitty thinks that a fucking perfect idea, and so he says, “That is a fucking perfect idea.”

 

He helps Kent rinse the shampoo from his hair, and he says, “Once Jack took a photo of some fucking railing outside the history building, and he made me look at it, but when I found a yam at Trader Joe’s that looked like a rabbit, he told me to fuck off.”

 

Kent laughs, and he leans his forehead on Shitty’s shoulder.

 

“What a fuckin’ nerd,” Kent says. He sways on his feet a bit, and then says, “Christ, I’m drunk.”

 

“Food?” Shitty asks. He can still hear music coming from downstairs, so it would be a trek, but they could do it. “There should still be some hidden pie in the kitchen.”

 

Kent steps out of the shower and towels off, then slides back into his jeans. He button up his plaid, and runs the towel over his head before slipping his hat back on his head. “Pie sounds perfect,” he says.

 

* * *

 

 

They make it downstairs without a hitch, not that Shitty thought there would be any issues. It’s his Haus. They slip into the kitchen, and Shitty breaks the police tape that they’ve wrapped over the fridge. “Blueberry okay?” he asks, and Kent nods.

 

“Can I leave my car here?” he asks, leaning against the counter.

 

“Yeah, dude, ‘course you can.”

 

The pie is mostly already gone, so Shitty just pulls two forks from the cutlery drawer and they eat it right from the pie plate.

 

They snack in silence, and Shitty is watching Kent and he stares into space and shovels food into his mouth. “You really miss him, eh?” Shitty asks, and Kent’s eyes snap to his.

 

He swallows, and nods, and he says, “I--yeah, I do. Every day.”

 

* * *

 

 

Kent calls for an Uber, and Shitty waits with him. When his phone dings, Shitty says, “I’ll walk you out.”

 

They step onto the porch just as the van pulls up at the kerb, and Kent says, “Thanks.” He leans back against the closed door and looks at Shitty for a long moment. He squeezes Shitty’s hand quickly, then jumps all the steps and lands on pavement with more grace than he ought to have at this point in the night. He turns, and smiles at Shitty one more time. It’s boyish and sweet, and Shitty says, “Yeah. Anytime.”

 

Parson smiles at him, and it’s snarky and knowing, and Shitty wants to blush but he doesn’t.

 

Instead, he smirks back.

 

 


End file.
